


The Thane Of Sarum

by Cerdic519



Series: The New Anglo-Saxon Chronicles [1]
Category: Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - 9th century, Anglo-Saxon, Battle of Ellandun (825 AD), Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Anglo-Saxon alpha/beta/omega love story, between those two wonderful idjits. Originally intended as part of a chain of six stories that would lead into my Supernaturally Austen series, my muse wandered off after just three, and somehow I forgot to publish two of them. So here's the first, the second to follow next year. Sword-fighting, betrayal, but no supernatural beasties – people had more than enough problems at that time as it was!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invasion!

Thursday September 7th, 825 A.D.  
Wilton, south Wiltshire, Kingdom of Wessex  
   
It was a quiet late summer’s day in the old market town. Dean of Winchester, who had moved to Wilton after the death of his father two years ago, surveyed the scene before him with a degree of contentment. Twenty-three summers he had seen now, and he was approaching the prime of his life. He was known around the town as the lone omega, the one who, for reasons the mothers of the town could never quite fathom, had somehow escaped being mated with one of their alphas and betas (this was because their alphas and betas knew that he was quite prepared to use that dagger he carried to protect his heat virginity). Dean was more interested in protecting the family smallholding - his brother Sam called it a farm; Dean called him an idiot - and quietly thanking his lucky stars that the Viking raids, about which his parents had instilled such tales of fear into him, seemed to be on hold for the time being.  
   
In retrospect, that was precisely when he should have foreseen that things would start going belly-up. And even though he didn’t foresee it, they still went and did so anyway.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Most days, Dean usually spent a few hours working for Robert the Wheelwright, repairing carts and such for the people of Wiltshire. It was undemanding work, but it paid, and he needed every penny he could get. Sammy dreamt of travelling to London one day, and since that city not only lay in what was enemy (i.e. Mercian) territory but was also many days’ travel away to the east, Dean knew his brother would need both money and a far better horse than anything they had now.  
   
He was musing on whether to go to the local tavern and spend some of his gains when the sound of hoof beats echoed down the valley road. Moments later, a young man galloped into town, scattering people right and left to the sound of much cursing, before he pulled up outside the largest house, where Alderman Æthelwulf lived. Seconds later he was banging frantically on the door, and was quickly admitted.  
   
“Wonder what that’s about?” Dean asked Jo, who was collecting tankards outside the tavern.  
   
“Guess we’ll know soon enough”, the barmaid replied, going back in and nimbly dodging the hand of an over-eager alpha on the way.  
   
+~+~+  
   
They knew within the hour. The crier summoned a town meeting, and the square was soon thronging with people. The alderman could be seen on the steps on his house, an elderly figure, greying but still impressive. The fact his two sons were standing behind him, both clearly armed, did not bode well.  
   
“People of Wilton, I have grave news.” The alderman’s voice sounded cracked, but it still carried across a suddenly silent square. “Two days ago the Mercian army crossed the Thames at Kempsford, and advanced on Crecklade. The townsfolk there have appealed to the king, and he has commanded as many of the fyrd as possible to assemble here. He will bring his own troops back from his recent conquests in Dumnonia, but he has summonsed the fyrds of Hampshire, Somersetshire and Dorsetshire to join us. The invaders must be driven out, ere they try to take our lands again.”  
   
Dean nodded in agreement. The swathe of land south of the Thames, including the north of the very county over which Wilton presided, had long been coveted by their greedy Midland neighbours, and they had held it during the time of the mighty King Offa. Slow and patient pressure, plus a minor victory at Kempsford in the year of Dean's birth, had regained it for the West Saxons, and King Egbert clearly wasn't going to give it up without a fight, even if he was fresh out of one battle and his men probably still tired from their long trek back from the west.  
   
Fortunately Sammy was away for two weeks in the brother's birthplace, the West Saxon capital Winchester, so Dean was able to return to the farm, buckle on his father’s sword, and leave his brother a note. He knew the beta would be furious when he got back, but by that time it would be too late, since someone had to stay and guard the farm. Especially if, worst case scenario, they lost and the Mercians got into this part of the county. He nearly forgot the omega scent suppressors he always kept in stock, and had to dash back for them.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Thursday September 14th, 825 A.D.  
Berford, south Wiltshire, Kingdom of Wessex  
   
King Egbert of Wessex worried about many things. To start with, he was forty-four years old now, old indeed for these times, and after his second long campaign against the turbulent West Welsh, he felt every single one of those years. Then to cap it all, just as he had been looking forward to a nice relaxing few weeks at one of his palaces, a messenger had come with the news that the Mercians were across the border again. King Beornwulf had obviously decided that the best way to secure his tenuous grip on power – he had fought (and possibly murdered) his way to the crown just two years before - was a campaign against a distracted neighbour. The trouble was, he might well be right.  
   
The king’s personal bodyguard rode around him in a tight formation, ready to ward off any attack, even though they just a few short miles from their destination, Wilton. Egbert sighed when he looked at the overgrown road they were on. Built by the Romans eight centuries before yet still serviceable; he really wished he had the resources to better maintain things like that.  
   
His eyes were drawn from the road to the semi-regal figure to his right, the sole non-Saxon present. Castiel of Dyvnaint had come into his service during the last campaign, and his sword-fighting skills had been such that he had ended up cutting a solitary swathe through the terrified enemy ranks, which the king had hastily dispatched the rest of his Guard to follow up. His mother was a seer in one of the towns the West Saxon army had passed through in Devon – Ochminton, he remembered – and she had asked the king to take her son into service. But it was what she had said afterwards that had unnerved the king, and made him eye the blue-eyed young man warily.  
   
‘He will help lead your troops in a great battle. But soon after, he will take a new master, and follow him for the rest of his life, and beyond. And there is nothing you can do to stop him’.  
   
She had refused to be drawn on the outcome of said battle, much to Egbert’s annoyance, but her words still echoed. He glanced subtly across, and wondered. The woman had not actually said that that battle would be a victory. Would the dark-haired alpha's treachery cost the king his life?

Notes:  
1) Wessex, a medium-sized Anglo-Saxon kingdom, roughly the counties of Hampshire, the Isle of Wight, Dorsetshire, Wiltshire, Somersetshire, Devonshire and Berkshire. It had been subservient to its rival across the river, the much larger Midlands kingdom of Mercia, but the balance was swinging back in the southern kingdom's favour at the time this story is set.  
2) The fyrd was the local militia.  
3) 'Welsh' referred to any Celt, though more usually those who lived in western Britain (Wales and Cornwall) beyond the Anglo-Saxon (English) kingdoms.  
4) Dyvnaint, the Saxon word for the Celtic kingdom of Dumnonia. Once powerful, the campaign mentioned in the story weakened but did not finish it off. The term would have been archaic around this time, as the heart of that kingdom (the modern county of Devonshire) was totally under West Saxon control.  
5) Ochminton, now Okehampton.


	2. Merlin’s Town

Saturday 16th September, 825 A.D.  
Merlinsborough, central Wiltshire, Kingdom of Wessex  
   
The road that ran north from Old Sarum, the abandoned Roman town just north of Wilton, continued all the way to the Mercian border, and like most Roman roads was fairly straight. About halfway along was yet another abandoned Roman town, Cunetio, and though the villagers of nearby Millenhall had used some of the stone to repair their own houses, most people had preferred the new and much better fortified town at Merlinsborough, a couple of miles to the east. The king had commanded the men of Wiltshire, now strengthened by their Dorsetshire and Hampshire allies, to make for there, where they would meet the men of Somersetshire. The Devonshire fyrd had to be left to keep a wary eye on the turbulent Cornishmen.  
   
They had been at the meeting-point for barely half an hour when one of the men shouted a warning. Everyone looked up, and saw the unmistakable flash of iron as the royal army started to emerge from the darkness of the mighty Savernake Forest. Riding almost at the very front was the king himself, surrounded by four of his guard, with four more ahead of him and a further four behind. Dean felt strangely apprehensive when he saw them approach, though he put it down to his nerves at the approaching battle. He was glad he had his sword, when so many around him had makeshift weapons or clubs. He also uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the Wilton seer Pamela, who had shown him how to use herbs to disguise his omega scent when around strange alphas and betas.  
   
+~+~+  
   
The county leaders had come back from their briefing with the king somewhat reassured. The Somersetshire fyrd was due to arrive around sunset, and although estimates of the invading force suggested the Mercians would have the advantage of both men and position, at least the West Saxons would be fighting on home soil. They were also much more seasoned fighters; many of the men had served time in the King’s army. The Mercians, on the other hand, had not really had a major fight since they had built the great dyke to demarcate their border with the turbulent Welsh.  
   
True to their word, the remaining men marched in as the sun was just beaming its last rays over the horizon. Dean was fortunate in that an old army friend of his, Victor, lived in Merlinsborough, so he was able to call in and stay there, getting a much-needed wash and a comfortable bed for the night.  
   
“Do you think the king will fight on a Sunday?” he asked, just before turning in.  
   
“I doubt it”, Victor told him. “He’ll probably march north until he finds them, then spend the day scouting their positions for an attack on Monday morning.”  
   
“I wonder where they’ll choose for a battle?”  
   
“My guess would be Beranbury, on the Ridgeway”, the older man said, wincing as he moved his leg. He had sustained the injury in the first western campaign, and had been excused further service. “It’s a good defensive position blocking all roads in the area, and they’ll hope the king will just accept they’ve taken the border lands back again. Wishful thinking on their part!”  
   
“True!” Dean grinned. Goodnight, friend.”  
   
+~+~+.  
   
Sunday 17th September, 825 A.D.  
   
As Victor had foretold, the king did send out scouts early the following day, and news soon filtered around the camp that the Mercians had indeed dug themselves in at Beranbury, less than ten miles to the north. Dean was sent to check to the east in case there was an outflanking movement. 

It was on his return to camp that the omega's life changed completely. He rounded a corner to find three of the men from Somerset picking on one of his Wiltshire colleagues, a harmless little beta called Charles (named for the great French king, which proved his parents had been hopeful if over-ambitious). The omega bristled with anger, and hurried over to insert himself in front of his colleague.  
   
“You’ll have someone real to fight soon enough!” he growled.  
   
“Oo, another beta with big ideas!” one of the three scoffed.  
   
“Back off!” Dean snapped. He might be just an omega, but he knew how to handle a sword.  
   
One of the three reached toward him, but his expression suddenly went very strange.  
   
“What you're now feeling between your shoulder-blades is indeed my dagger, and a very sharp one it is.” The voice was almost canine in the way it growled out the words. “Now I suggest you take yourself and these two idiots of yours back to your camp, before my hand slips, and I rid the world of an alpha who can’t keep his dirty hands to himself!”  
   
The man moved very slowly forward, then suddenly turned and lunged at the figure behind him. A second later he was lying on the floor, with the man’s boot on his neck, gasping in shock.  
   
“Unwise, my friend!”  
   
“You’re in the Guard!” the man gasped, seeing the blue badge.  
   
“Ten out of ten for observation, but zero for common sense! Now get out, before I drag you before the king!”  
   
The man scrambled away across the floor, eventually making it to his feet before fleeing. His two colleagues had long disappeared. Dean looked at his rescuer – and paled.  
   
Oh, but this alpha was beautiful!  
   
There was no two ways about it, beautiful was the word. He was dark, not fair like most Saxons, had a slightly rounded, almost boyish face, and a stubbled chin. His dark hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in ages, and the way he was folding away his dagger suggested he most definitely knew how to use it. He looked up and stared at Dean through a pair of impossibly blue eyes.  
   
“Castiel of Dyvnaint, at your service, sir.”  
   
“Um, hullo. I’m Dean. Dean Winchester. This is….”  
   
A thud from behind suggested the whole thing had just been too much for his friend, who had slumped to the floor. Castiel sighed and stepped forward, hoisting the dead weight into his arms despite his relatively small frame.  
   
“I do not wish to stand here holding him all day, Dean, so if you could tell me where your place is?”  
   
There was the slightest of smiles on his face as he said that.  
   
“Oh. Sure. Of course. Um, right over here. Yes.”  
   
He was sure he had been able to talk in coherent sentences not that long ago, but the ability seemed to have deserted him in the presence of this…. this god.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Dean didn’t really have any right to be sat here talking with one of the King’s Guard, but he felt instinctively that something about this alpha would stop anyone raising any fuss.  
   
“Would you mind if I asked you something?” he asked tentatively.  
   
Castiel smiled at him, and Dean’s stomach did something that made it feel like there were a whole load of butterflies fighting to get out.  
   
“It’s about the name, isn’t it?” he said softly.  
   
“Sort of. Yes.”  
   
The alpha sighed.  
   
“My parents are seers, from Saxon Cornwall, though they moved to Devonshire some years since”, he explained. “My mother knew I was special, but she had a dream just before I was born that I should be named after the angel on whose day of the week I came into the world. Since that was a Thursday, I became Castiel. She was the one who met the king and asked me to consider taking me on. I did well at my first battle, and he made me a member of the Guard.”  
   
Dean knew from more than one overheard conversation that ‘did well’ was an understatement, and then some. Castiel had terrified the enemy so much with his swordplay that virtually the entire flank in front of him had collapsed as a result.  
   
“So you came from there to be with the king, then.”  
   
Castiel did not answer, but asked a question instead.  
   
“What about your name, Dean? What does that mean?”  
   
“Just someone who lives in a deep valley”, the omega said. “Nothing very exciting.”  
   
“Everyone’s name is important”, Castiel said thoughtfully. “You are like your name; strong, straightforward, sensible….”  
   
“It can also mean a man of the Church, and I’m no saint!” Dean laughed.  
   
Castiel looked at him.  
   
“I’m glad of that”, he said, looking at the omega meaningfully.  
   
Dean blushed fiercely. The man knew!  
   
“I bet you’re no angel, though”, he said, trying to change the subject.  
   
Castiel stood up.  
   
“The king needs me”, he said. “I must go. But after the battle, Dean….”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“After the battle, maybe you should find out just how unangelic I really am.”  
   
He strode away. Dean stared after him, remembering what Pam had said when she had first shown him the herbs he used. 'They will work on anyone except your true mate'.....

Notes:  
1) Millenhall, now Mildenhall.  
2) Merlinsborough, now Marlborough.  
3) Beranbury, now Barbury.  
4) Saxon Cornwall. King Ine (688-722) had established a Saxon presence in the most south-westerly county of England, between the rivers Tamar and Lynher. This remained a royal fiefdom, and only after the final conquest of the Celtic kingdom was it returned to Cornwall. It contained the modern towns of Callington, Launceston and Bude; a small strip around the village of North Petherwin remained part of Devonshire until the dreadful 1974 boundary changes.


	3. Battle

Monday 18th September, 825 A.D.  
Werton, north Wiltshire, Kingdom of Wessex  
   
Victor had been right not only about the probable site of the battle, Dean thought wryly, but also about the Mercians. Though they outnumbered the West Saxons nearly two to one, they were unpractised in their skills, and half an hour into the battle this was finally telling. He could see Castiel from his position on the left of the right flank, protecting his king as the West Saxon centre pushed slowly forward, gradually forcing the Mercians to yield ground.  
   
The Mercian tactics had been wrong from the start, thankfully. A small West Saxon assault on their fort having been repulsed, they had abandoned their defensive advantage and surged forward, only to run into the much stronger main force. Now they were gradually losing ground, and at the back of their formation, the first tell-tale signs of those who had decided the day was lost and were making their escape could be seen. Another few minutes or so, and it would all be over.   
   
Then Dean saw it. The royal group had pushed too far forward, and the longer Mercian line on the left could now attack their exposed flank. Almost as if it was in slow motion, he saw one particular Mercian, a swarthy dirty blond fellow, moving round towards Castiel, whose line of sight was blocked. The man drew out a dagger and moved in for the kill.  
   
There was no way Dean could shout a warning and still be heard, not amidst the chaos and confusion of the battlefield. He ducked out of his position and hurtled towards the man, screaming in the hope that he might somehow draw Castiel's attention. 

Unfortunately, he instead drew the attention of the blond attacker, who reached into his waistband and withdrew a small throwing-dagger. Dean could not believe it. He was to meet his end at the hands of a coward’s weapon? He tried desperately to close the distance between them, but there was no way he had the time......  
   
The man was still looking at him, but now the expression on his face was infinitely puzzled, as if something as confusing him. Then Dean saw the unmistakable stain of blood begin to seep across the man’s shirt, just as he recognized Castiel standing right behind him, swiftly withdrawing the sword he had just plunged into him. Their eyes met.  
   
“Later”, the warrior promised, then swung round and swept back into battle.

Dean staggered back towards his formation, but the battle was almost won. The Mercian centre and right were both collapsing, and within a quarter of an hour the enemy was fleeing back northwards, whence they had come. The only drawback was that the West Saxons were too exhausted and outnumbered to follow them, but that didn’t stop them celebrating all the way back to Merlinsborough.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Dean was almost asleep when he heard a knock at the door, and was thankful that Victor was still up to get it. He heard a brief conversation, and then silence. He wondered if the visitor had left, but it had been an exhausting day, and his many bruises still hurt, so he sank back towards the blissful arms of sleep.  
   
Until he realized someone was sliding into bed beside him, and he smelt a familiar scent of cold iron and snow.  
   
“Cas?” he whispered.  
   
The alpha eased his frame up against Dean’s, and sighed contentedly.  
   
“My perfect omega”, he whispered. “Your friend let me in. Obviously you told him about me.”  
   
Dean blushed.  
   
“I… may have mentioned you….”  
   
“'That perfect alpha'…. 'I’d do anything if I could be his'…. 'that wall of muscle'…”  
   
“Shut up! You’re embarrassing me!”  
   
“I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you, Dean. Say you’ll be mine, please?”  
   
“Only if you promise to stay with me.”  
   
“Tonight and every night, beloved”, Castiel whispered. “But I shall not take you until our union has been made official.”  
   
Dean pouted in the darkness.   
   
“Not even if you pout like that!” Castiel teased.  
   
“You can’t even see me!” Dean protested.  
   
“I know you so well, beloved. Sleep, now. Tomorrow we must plan, for the king wishes to return to Winchester, and I know you want to go home as well. But for now, sleep.”  
   
He pulled the omega into a warm embrace, and Dean finally fell asleep, knowing his world could not get any more perfect.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Tuesday 19th September, 825 A.D.  
Merlinsborough, Kingdom of Wessex  
   
Castiel walked into the royal chambers next morning with a smile on his face. It didn't go unnoticed by his colleagues.  
   
“Some alpha got lucky last night!” teased Cynric.  
   
“Well, it wasn’t me”, Castiel said dryly. “Though I did meet someone….”  
   
“Aha!” Ceolwulf called out from behind him.  
   
“… but I didn’t knot him, Cel, so get your mind out of the gutter”, Castiel snapped good-humouredly. “Where’s the king?”  
   
“Receiving the Mercian envoy”, Cynric said with a shrug.   
   
Castiel looked alarmed.  
   
“Alone?” he said querulously.  
   
“Of course not!” Cynric retorted. “Four of the guys are in there with him. Not that he’s much of a threat, weasely little oik.  
   
“Tried to flatter the king by calling him a modern Hercules!” Sigeric laughed. “Even presented him with a gold-rimmed cloak in honour of his great…. Castiel?”  
   
Castiel had bolted from the room.  
   
+~+~+  
   
King Egbert was toying with idea of wearing his new gift around town that afternoon when his newest Guard member burst in, and promptly knocked the Mercian envoy over like a skittle.  
   
“Castiel!” the king said reprovingly.  
   
Castiel managed a quick bow before speaking.  
   
“You haven’t put it on yet?” he said quickly.  
   
The king looked at him as if he were mad. That look only increased when his Guardsman’s next action was to grab the visiting envoy by the shoulder and drag him into the centre of the room. He tensed as he suddenly remembered the woman’s prophecy – was this the moment the man turned on him?  
   
“I think an explanation is in order”, he said calmly.  
   
“I will wager my very soul that the cloak you are holding in your hands is poisoned!” Castiel gasped out.  
   
The king looked at him in amazement.  
   
“What makes you say that?” he asked, eyeing the Mercian emissary cautiously.  
   
“He called you Hercules”, Castiel explained. “In Greek legend, Hercules was destroyed by an old enemy, Nessus, who tricked him into wearing a poisoned shirt. They couldn’t defeat you in battle, so this is their back-up plan.”  
   
The king dropped the cloak to the ground, and rang a small bell. The other guards appeared as if by magic.  
   
“Take Metatron here away”, he said. “Bag it, and take this cloak to my alchemist. If as Castiel says it is poisoned, you have my permission to make clear to our guest that I do not approve of such actions.”  
   
“I am a diplomat, under a flag of truce”, the small man protested. “You have no right…”  
   
“You forfeited those rights when you tried to commit murder”, the king said coldly. “To the dungeon with him!”  
   
Four of the guards hauled the protesting man out of the room. The king stared silently at Castiel.  
   
“You have saved both my kingdom and my life now”, he said quietly. “Ask any reward, and it shall be yours.”

Castiel hesitated  
   
“May I ask for two things, your majesty?” he said at last. “The second request is quite a small one....”  
   
+~+~+  
   
The procession through the town was a surprise for the townsfolk, but they were delighted to help celebrate the country’s triumph. Dean had received a note from Castiel telling him he had things to attend to, but they would meet in the town square, where the king was to reward his faithful soldiers. Dean was upset he would not get to see the alpha alone, but duly dragged himself to the square, where he easily recognized the dark scruffy mop of hair that signalled Castiel out from all the others (did they actually have combs in Devonshire?). He was the last in line, and it seemed like an age before the king beckoned him forward.   
   
“To my faithful servant and guard Castiel, I award the title Thane of Sarum, and enough land in and around the towns of the area to justify that title.”  
   
There was a burst of dutiful applause. Then the king signalled to what was obviously a churchman of some sort to step forward.   
   
“Bishop Meriet?”  
   
“My lord.”  
   
“I believe my newest thane has a request to make of you.”  
   
Before Dean could react, Castiel was standing in front of him, leading him into the stage and in front of…. the king? Dean 's face turned ashen.  
   
“The second part of my request is that, in the sight of all present, you allow Bishop Meriet to join me with this omega, so he may be mine, and I may be his.”  
   
“A fair request”, the king smiled. “Bishop?”  
   
The bishop stepped forward, and Castiel pressed in closer to Dean.  
   
“Mine!” he rumbled possessively.  
 

1) Werton, now Wroughton. The most probable site for the Battle of Ellandun (in my opinion, at least), today it is a car park!  
2) Thane or thegn was the title used for a middle-ranking lord who held land and provided men for military service. By granting such an honour to an outsider, the king was showing a very definite approval towards Castiel.


End file.
